Eternal Return
by Echante
Summary: We thought we had a friendship that could never be shattered, turns out, we were wrong... the slightly AU story of Derek and Mark's friendship


A/N: This is the first-time I've ever written with a beta or taken the time to read over a story so hopefully it should be good:-) Thanks to CitronPresse for her beta skills!

* * *

Inspired by _The_ _Kite Runner:_

_Take out of your wasted honor,_

_Every little past frustration,_

_Take out all your so called problems,_

_Better put them in quotations._

It is hard to find the beginning. The two of us: we were a circle, ensnared and revolving so tightly that any possible chasm, an entrance, would have been impossible to find. Until one day, we weren't. Until I took that final trust and selfishly abused my best friend of twenty-one years. Until I plunged the twisting knife that would become our unraveling. I set the events into motion, and the sands of time had not forgotten.

But_ I_ had forgotten about those forsaken times, _I'd_ forgotten the crumbing of a lifelong friendship, and then one day, I received a call. I was wanted in Manhattan…

* * *

We were less than a year old when we met; Mark was the elder by two months and I was the perpetual darling, my mother's little prince in her sea of princesses. My father brought him into our home, told us he was the kid of a family friend who didn't treat him quite right. We accepted him into our lives. To me, at least, he would redeem the acceptance time and time again. As we grew older it was clearer that I was the child and he was the protector. I would dream up schemes and mischief and he would grudgingly partake in them.

Mark was bigger than all the other kids, while I was much smaller. In retrospect I don't understand how we were friends. But to us, the innocent eight year old adventurers, the pairing made perfect sense. I was the brains, he was the brawn.

He wasn't particularly nice to anyone else, only to me, and by extension, my family, although God knows why. I asked him one time and he had shrugged, and said sheepishly, "You're my brother, you know?" I hadn't understood at the time and Mark had been too embarrassed to explain further.

His parents didn't love him, of that I was pretty certain. His father avoided him, stepping out whenever he entered the room. His mother was too preoccupied with herself to consider him at all. I think they were the reason why he grew bitter, why he scoffed at God and sunshine. But my father did. My father loved him and sometimes I didn't understand and couldn't guess why. He was at every one of Mark's soccer games and cheered loudly every time he scored a goal. The resentment would bubble in me then; I couldn't play soccer, hell I couldn't play sports. My father used to ruffle Mark's hair and hoist him onto his shoulders and parade him around the street. He never did that to me. I used to hate him for it.

* * *

One day, we were walking home in the hot New York summer sun and I asked Mark about what he thought of love. He thought about it a while, pondered it gravely in his rock-hard head and then shook it, "I dunno." He said, and then he turned to me and grinned, "I think, Mark-love should be shared."

"You don't believe in a one true love?" I asked him, eight years old at the time, fresh off of seeing _Lion King._

"Nah." He shook his head ruefully, "Love is too messy, look at my parents." He pointed out, "It makes them hate each other."

And that was the end of the conversation, although he used to tease me mercilessly for asking the question.

* * *

There was a creek that fed into the lakeby Mark's house where we used to play. We had our miniature sailboats and we'd sail them across. In our infantile scribble we'd written the words 'Derek and Mark' and splayed it across our two sails, one for each of us.

One day, our boats had set sail and were busy weaving in and out of the water when suddenly, one of them curtailed and crashed into a surrounding rock. The waylaid ship was too far for us to reach despite desperate attempts which concluded in despair. We rescued the other boat and couldn't tell whose it was because they had identical appearances. Mark took it and examined it and concluded that it was mine. He explained that his didn't have a blue steering wheel and I believed him. Years later I found a small, crooked 'M' carved on the deck of the ship. It was never mine.

* * *

Every year I asked my father for the same gift, a KDR 7.0 FX bicycle from Trek. Every year my father declined and asked for an alternative, which I would usually accept with a frown and a whine of 'Mark always gets what he wants!' My mother would chastise me while Mark would frown and turn away. One year, two days after his birthday, Mark made the journey up to my house wheeling a brand new bicycle. He handed it over to me when he got to the top and told me, "I found this in my garage." Even then at twelve years old I knew he was lying. But the prospect of having the bike overwhelmed my politeness and I dragged him to show Mom and Dad.

My smile fell when my father told me to give it back and once more I felt the sting of his favoritism towards Mark. But Mark refused, squirmed saying that it was a child's bike so his father couldn't ride it and he already had a bike. 'Besides' Mark had said, 'Derek would put it to good use.'

And I did. From that day on, that bike and I were inseparable. I would ride it around while Mark jogged behind and I'd tease him for being so slow. He'd only grin. "Get off of that thing and we'll see." He'd taunt.

"Not a chance!" I would yell back at him and then add, "Race you home!"

* * *

At night time he was at my house more often than not, and we'd sit there, adolescent children whispering about our dreams, our future, the girls we liked, the presents we got for our birthdays. Mark would always get something nice and each year, before he even opened the present he'd come to my house and we'd peel away the wrapping paper together, stare openly at the magical holding box. I never noticed that the year I got my bike, was the one year Mark didn't bring his present over.

In high school we diverged further. He wore the black muscle shirt and bagged jeans while I had the wired smile and four-eyed face. Girls swooned for him and laughed at me. But nothing changed. He risked his reputation by being my friend and beating-up a shit-load of guys who tried to persecute me. He hooked me up with my first girl-friend, told me all I needed to know about sex, and then wrapped me up and handed me a condom. Needless to say I never used it but it was the thought that counted. In his eyes, I could do no wrong. In his eyes, I never would have failed.

* * *

And in college it all changed. In college, Mark and I met Addison.

"Excuse me." He was saying to her as I walked into the bar, she looked up slightly startled, "I just wanted to say I like your shirt." And he grinned and winked at her.

She laughed, "Everybody likes this shirt."

"Well the Beatles are somewhat of a phenomenon."

She agreed wholeheartedly and then continued serving while humming. After a while she'd noticed that Mark was still there and startled she'd looked up at him. "Did you need something else?" she asked.

Mark nodded, "Yes." He confirmed, "I'd like to buy you a drink." And then he grinned, "And your phone number wouldn't be too bad either."

She laughed and then turned and it was the first time that night she turned towards me. I fell in love in that first glance. But Mark was still talking to her, and she was laughing, as I drooled, over some joke Mark was telling and reaching for a pen to write her number on a napkin.

Throughout the next two weeks she'd accompany Mark wherever he went. I'd see them kissing under willow trees and hear them fucking in the room next door. I bubbled up with jealousy. The whole predicament left a foul taste in my mouth and I used Mark's loyalty to my advantage.

"When are you going to break up with her?" I kept badgering and each time he'd shrug and reply, "Not yet. I'm not done with her." Until one day, my frustrations boiled over so far that I'd pulled the one card I knew would win. I held the ace in the hole and mercilessly, I played it.

"Damn it Mark!" I shouted, "I'm so tired of waiting for you to end it with her! I love her alright? She is going to be my wife, so please," I finished, "In the name of our friendship, please stop playing games with me and her."

He looked at me stunned, mouth hanging open, and, if I had examined him closer I would have found the heartbreak. But I didn't. Instead he mumbled, "I didn't know you loved her." And then agreed.

Over the next week he commenced to ignore her phone calls and avoid her during school. If I were a better friend I would have noticed the pain engraved in his eyes but I didn't. I comforted her. I soothed her as she cried and eventually, the friendship developed into engagement, and engagement developed into marriage. Mark stood vigil as the best man. He smiled at me as she walked down the aisle.

* * *

Then one day, ten years later, I walked into my house and heard giggling from the bedroom. I turned the corner and rounded the stairwell and made my way up to the second floor. A leather jacket lay in the hallway, Mark's, and a silk top lay beside it, Addison's. I press my ear to the door and heard laughter. Then, I yanked it open and changed my life forever.

"You betrayed our friendship," I spat at him before he left, Addison's eyes cast downward, guilty.

"It was worth it," he said, glaring. Those were the last words we ever spoke to each other.

The rest was history, if you excuse the cliché, I went to Seattle, married another woman, buried Addison and Mark, buried my family deep inside my mind. But I should have known that all things buried are dug up. I should have understood that the past always comes back to bite you in the ass.

* * *

"Derek?" A familiar voice called out to me, and I looked up to meet Addison's gaze.

"Addison." I greeted and examined her closely; her eyes were green and grey, clouded with despair. Her hair was shorter and darker then I remember it. She had the same defiant gaze and stubborn jaw that rose slightly into the air. Her mouth quivered slightly, and her lips were dry, she kept licking them, "I'm sorry." I say and her eyes mist over again slightly.

She shook her head. "Not your fault."

Her lawyer had called me to Manhattan, explained that Mark had died in a bar brawl while trying to terminate the fight which had broken out next to his table. He'd been stabbed with broken glass repeatedly and bled out before the ambulance arrived.

"Is there anything I can do?" I asked her, feeling stupid the moment those words came out of my lips. There were many things I _should _have done. I should have listened to Mark when he told me he was falling in love with someone. I should have forgiven him for taking something that was his to begin with. Or farther back, I should have not forced him to break up with the love of his life. I should have kept jealousy and friendship out of their relationship. Or even farther, I should have acknowledged that he gave up his birthday present that year for me. I should have given him back his ship instead of selfishly keeping it for myself. Who was I kidding, I threw away a lifetime of friendship, of the best friend I ever had because I couldn't listen to reason. Because I was fucking selfish.

"He missed you, you know?" she murmured as we sat down near the window of a coffee shop.

I didn't know what to say, I bowed my head. "He tried to reach you…" she shook her head, "I felt so guilty, coming between years and years of friendship…" and then her eyes turn angry, "But then I thought, what kind of friend is that? One who makes them give up a girl in the name of friendship? One who abandons them, doesn't return phone calls, crosses the country and disappears!" Her voice rose, "You know, he postponed the wedding for a whole year waiting for you to call back? And you didn't even call to tell him about yours."

"I'm sorry." I said, I could hear the words coming out of my mouth but couldn't feel them, "I was an idiot."

"Clearly." She snorted and then rose as Savy entered the shop with a red-haired child.

I stopped her before she left and asked, "What's his name?"

She hesitated and then glared, "Derek." She said pointedly, and walked away. She confirmed all my suspicions. Savy turned to me and handed me a package saying, "Addison didn't want to give it to you but it was in Mark's will so…" she trailed off and gave me a small half-smile, "Welcome home Derek." And she followed Addison away.

_Derek,_

_I'm sorry. That's all I can say. I did something terrible and you should probably never forgive me. I really can't defend myself except to say that I loved her. I loved her more than life and I'm sorry. It doesn't justify it and I hope that you will forgive me and we'll be friends again someday. I miss you sometimes bro. I talked to your mother recently, she says you're married. I hope you're happy. I hope I didn't ruin you… but you know, you're Derek, you bounce. You were always the graceful one. I was always the son-of-a-bitch… Well I guess I proved that huh? Addy thinks I should let it go. Addy says you treated her like crap and I hate you for it but I think she just misinterpreted you. You were always a little unaware. _

_Mark_

_Derek,_

_Your mother doesn't even know where you're living! Jesus Derek. I've been trying to find you everywhere… if I ever mail this letter I hope you'll have forgiven me by then. I miss you dude. You're my best friend. I have a kid now. You're probably laughing. Sometimes I take him to the river and sail boats in it, just like we used to. I told him about his namesake. Or well, he's your namesake. I trained him well, if you were in the vicinity, I'm pretty sure he'd be able to spot you. _

_Mark._

_Derek,_

_I wish I could talk to you man. You sent back my last letter… it's been eight years. Let it go. Please? I miss you. When it's sunny I can still see you riding your bike down that old hill across the street from your house. It's been too long._

_Mark_

I recognized the letters. I'd sent all three of them back to him without reading it. And right then and there, I broke down and cried. I cried in front of a restaurant full of patrons and let the sobs flow. I cried for my brother. I cried for our friendship. I cried because of my betrayal and I cried for Mark Sloan and Addison Montgomery because I'd robbed them of years of love.

* * *

The funeral was tough and dreary. I imagined every man and woman shaking their head at me, whispering about the friendship I'd thrown away, the horror I had caused. I jumped when my mother approached and sighed when she said that we needed to talk. I agreed, although not pleasantly and we walked to a secluded corner of the cemetery.

She sighed, "This is something your father should have told you, but he's not here to do it is he?"

Confused I asked, "What Mom?"

She wiped silent tears from her cheeks and continued, "A while before you were born, well, about two months before you were conceived, your father had an affair."

Shocked I glared at her open mouthed, "He thought I didn't know… he spent the rest of his life making up for it, believe me… but… he met her at a conference. Her husband was a businessman, very rich…"

"He never told you?"

She shook her head.

"Then how do you know who it was?"

"I knew her." She said, "It was obvious."

"Who was it?"

"Well, she was a neighbor of ours… and she had a kid… her husband was sterile so it was clear…"

"Who Mom?"

She thinned her lips and delivered the final blow, "They lived in the Mansion at the bottom of the hill." She told me. Mark. Mark was my half-brother. And I had betrayed him.

I was sitting at the bottom of the hill, right past the cemetery when he came. I heard his little eight year old feet pattering and then saw his slight smile as he tugged on my sleeve. "Dr. Shepherd?" the child asked.

"Derek?" I asked and the kid smiled gloriously.

"Derek." He replied and stuck out his hand.

I saw my childhood in the smile of Mark's kid, I saw the sail boats and bike rides and soccer games. I saw oceans and kites and road trips across the border. But most importantly, I saw that tanned skinned, grey-eyed, handsome little boy that told me so many years before, before either of us ever knew the truth, that I was his brother.


End file.
